The Poet

First rays of the sun gently brushed the quilt of fog covering sleepy hills. Warmth and moisture carried aromas of rosemary, bay leaves and cedar needles, which densely covered jagged slopes. A stream hummed softly, squeezing between moss-covered rocks.

Morning heat woke up the thrush, who shook off remains of sleep and set off on a daily journey in search of food and materials to insulate a small nest between branches of an old hazel. Winter was still far away but the cautious bird did not think to delay.

The routine scouting of the small ward would have passed without interruption, were it not for a trail of smoke whose gray ribbon cut the blue of the sky. The thrush chirped anxiously and flew hastily towards the potential fire. Fortunately the smoke rose from a fading bonfire arranged under the branches of a huge cedar. The bird breathed a sigh of relief, but did not return to flying around its area. People rarely ventured in these parts and a bird’s diligence gave way only to bird’s curiosity.

The thrush perched on a tree branch and focused his eyes. A few meters below him, leaning against a trunk sat a peculiar, even for a human, male. His long dark hair was combed back. His shoulders were covered with a coat, shimmering with light shades of crimson and anthracite. The black vest was put on a white shirt with a fancy jabot under his neck. The legs of patched pants were tucked into leather shoes with buckles. Rolled up sleeves revealed slim forearms and black gloves on his hands. The individual rested a small notebook on his knee and scraped in it...

The thrush chirped frightfully when he saw a large, dark blue feather in the man’s slim fingers. To his horror, the bird-killer looked straight at him with eyes completely black, reminiscent of caves in the snowy mountain slopes. The little one could not move, paralyzed by a terrible sight. The man contorted his face and reached for something at his leg. The thrush closed his eyes and thought to himself that he could ignore the smoke, or seeing the bonfire could just calmly fly away. Meanwhile, due to stupid curiosity he will never come back to the nest on an old hazel.

However, death did not come. There was only a melodious twitter from somewhere below. The bird looked beneath him and saw that the man, putting a blade of grass in his mouth, was making quite decent trills. The thrush chirped again and again, trying to instruct the male and let him know that with a little exercise he would be able to strive for a good female. After a moment of mutual singing, the bird took off. Along the way, he thought for a long time that people were even stranger than he thought, and that it is probably for the best to leave them alone.

The man with black eyes wandered up the mountain path, climbing rocky slopes, then again going down treacherous slopes. Despite cloudless sky, the day was quite cool and the man’s steady breaths flew away in faint clouds of steam. Residual dew on the grass soaked through his pants up to his knees. Moisture also got into his shoes, which interior now resembled a barn forgotten by the host. The wanderer did not pay attention to these inconveniences. His steps were springy and lively, he looked around curiously, which was why he often tripped over roots or protruding rocks. Every now and then he paused, took a black leather notebook and a dark blue pen with a silver engraved nib from his red coat’s pocket and wrote a few words. He then silently recited individual verses, crossed some of them out, corrected the rest and continued his march with a smile. Every once in a while the man made an indefinite movement with his hand or shook his head as if trying to chase away a non-existent fly or an intrusive thought. His pale face was engulfed by an ugly grimace at the time, although it always disappeared quickly, bringing back an affable expression.

After a few hours of travel, the black-eyed poet reached the top of a substantial hill, whose gentle, flowery slope ended abruptly, as if cut off with a titanic knife, and passed into an almost vertical rock wall. A few hundred meters below, a barely visible thread of a river meandered in a narrow valley. On the other side of the gorge was another mountain range, green with forests on the slopes and whitewashed with snow on the peaks. Much closer, hugged to a steep cliff, a path stretched from the top of the hill to... Well, somewhere down below. The path was almost invisible, because of ivy creepers and dwarf trees which has overgrown it with an almost unnatural thicket. The traveler wandered around the edge of the meadow for a moment before finding steep stairs made of crushed stones between the clusters of grass and boxwood bushes.

The path turned out to be less of a challenge than it might originally seem. The stairs, though enveloped in ubiquitous vegetation, were even and solid, with dimensions enabling safe walk. The poet descended slowly, looking into the abyss from time to time and then instinctively placing his hand on the rock wall. With one such movement, his hand did not come across a safe, rough touch. This would have made the man stagger and fall, were it not for a quick but clumsy balance of his body. Surprised and scared, he looked away towards the expected breach or cave. His dark eyes, however, stumbled upon a niche carved in stone, in which shadows was a peculiar scene. A bronze figure bent under a great... Cross? A man in trailing robes with a wreath woven of spiky branches on his head was carrying two crossed wooden bars. The craftsmanship was overwhelmingly expressed in the poor man’s face, distorted by an oppressive drudgery and marked by streams of metallic blood. The figure was so suggestive that the wanderer in red cloak analyzed all the details for a long time. Then, fascinated, he pulled out a notebook from his pocket and began turning the pages. He flipped through many written in equal, careful writing, going to cards filled not only with the common language, but also with dwarven runes and elven sigils, and then to pages filled with occult symbols, demonic seals and other signs that not a single eye in Aumaana had ever seen or could define. The poet made a quick sketch and wrote a few words. He involuntarily noticed that a dark, thick and sticky liquid was seeping from between the notebook pages, dripping large drops onto the stone stairs. He closed the notebook, as if absentmindedly, and continued down the stairs, at a much faster pace.

The wanderer passed many statues along the way, probably depicting the chronological course of some legendary events. The figure with the cross was depicted several times lying under the heavy object, extending lean hands towards a group of women, then being stripped of his garments by hideously depicted soldiers. The most striking, however, was the scene in which the martyr was hanging, nailed by his hands and feet to the cross, which he was previously forced to carry. The view was shocking and full of power, all the more so that the statue was not inserted into the rock wall, but stood on the edge of the stairs, at the very edge of a chasm. The shadow of the torture instrument and the body stretched out on it was a long, dark streak that the black-eyed poet tried to avoid, guided by some indefinite fear. To his relief, the path slowly reached its level, ending with a huge wooden door, fitted exactly into the rock cave. The feeling of relief quickly gave way to the familiar anxiety.

The solid gates wrapped with darkened iron marked deep marks, most likely claws. Long lines were parallel to each other in groups of four. However, this not what was concerning the poet. Doubts have overwhelmed him yet again. Hesitation. Hence, the man sat down cross-legged on the stones, put his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. He stayed still for several minutes, muttering bizarre words, as if some kind of ephemeral formulas or incantations. When he opened them, completely black knobs were now stud with bright dots, like the vault of a starry sky. He examined the door and edges of the grotto patiently and carefully, then stared at it, as if trying to penetrate thick wood with amazing eyesight. After spending a few minutes on that task he stood up, turned around and took a step toward the stairs. However, before he managed to put down another, he fell as if struck by lightning, completely inert and as if smaller, shrunken. The poet normally was pale, although now his skin resembled the whiteness of the most perfect pearls, fished far south from here. The black from his eyes seemed to leak out with swift streams of tarry tears, revealing iris with a hard to determine, almost fluid shade of brown. The man lay there until the fear and suffering on his face blurred and spread, creating a uniform surface of indifference. He nodded slightly and as if given an order, his eyes were once again overwhelmed by oppressive blackness, which then began spilling into his veins that suddenly swollen and bulged. At the same time contracted muscles also grew in size and, filled with slimy power, tensed, arching the body. After a while the traveler got up, dusted himself off and moved his hand in front of his face, whispering a sentence. His regular, brown, quite beautiful eyeballs looked out from under his fingers. Then he went to the gate and knocked on wood.

Almost immediately, a small door, which was a part of one of the colossal wings, has opened. Behind them appeared an old woman in a black dress with a hood. She gazed at the space behind the newcomer, scanning it thoroughly with penetrating eyes, and then looked at the man in the red coat. “Buongiorno,” she said in a harsh, though pleasant voice. The wanderer have heard this language before, although he did not know it well, because its users did not create too many literary works that he could study (or imperial libraries were more rigorously censored than suggested by the official statute). He knew only single words and basic phrases. - Buongiorno! - He said with a common accent at the sound of which his soul wept. - Io sono aaa... Pilgrim eee... Pellegrino! Io sono pellegrino! - The poet boomed with a silly smile. The old woman nodded indulgently, smiled back and gestured the visitor inside. The two were walking down a rock-lined corridor, illuminated by rows of torches plugged into handles on uneven walls. Vibrating lights cast restless shadows of the marching figures. The view after leaving the tunnel would have cut the poet off his feet, were it not for his focus on the task ahead. A dozen meters away, at the top of the stairs carved out of pink marble, a huge building gnawed into the vertical wall of the cliff. Its walls were also made of marble in shades of pink and white. The soaring towers and the dome were almost scraping the stone slopes. Round windows were filled with colorful stained glass which also depicted crosses, the convict he saw earlier, and many other symbols and scenes. The pilgrim stood speechless, his guide not stopping this moment of admiration, most likely accustomed to such reactions. - Bello... - He whispered. The old woman nodded, agreeing with this revealing statement, then suggestively pushed the newcomer towards the stairs, turned around and disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.

The temple door was also huge, but gave way lightly, revealing a dark, chilly interior. The walls on the left and straight ahead were carved out in the mountain walls, while the others were bricked up so that the whole building formed the shape of a cross. The main nave was densely filled with benches with kneels, tall candlesticks, bowls of various sizes and desks. Colossal columns supported an arched vault painted in beautiful patterns. At the top of the nave was a pink altar, and behind it, reliefs were placed on the wall. In the center of the painting sat a woman in a crown of stars, and around her winged silhouettes of angels seemed to circulate in mystical adoration.

Only now did the poet notice figures kneeling at the altar. Closest to him was a bald man, dressed in purple robes with a gold thread embroidered on his back. On both sides rows of black-clad women swayed to the rhythm of a song. The newcomer counted eleven people. The participants of the ceremony completely absorbed in prayer did not pay attention to the opening of the door. The melody rippled, rising in adoration towards the vault of the building’s dome, then falling again, as if taken off by some sanctified fear. The man in the red coat sat down quietly, choosing the bench closest to the door and listening to the sounds of the rite. The song died down and the priest took the floor. He was carrying some lavishly decorated, shiny dishes. The poet managed to distinguish from the words of prayer two cyclically repeated words: corpo and sangue.

He has already dealt with cannibalistic practices among the numerous sects that were born in Aumaana after the Second Great Crusade. In his mind he rebuked himself for naivety at the splendor of magnificent temples. He should already know that wonderful decorations and lavish rituals can hide the most terrible horrors. The man carefully removed his gloves, trying not to catch on to the sharp burrs that covered his hands. He then stood up and spoke loudly, his eyes flooded with impenetrable black. - Dear ladies! I kindly suggest that you leave this place and go as far as possible. I insist! - His voice sounded firmly, echoing off the walls. The women stopped swaying, stood up and obediently left in a dark procession, closing the door behind them. The echo of their footsteps on the stairs rang for a moment. The priest trembled at the sound of the poet’s voice, but he did not turn back, but resumed his prayers, saying the words hurriedly, though carefully and very clearly. - Master of ceremony - began the black-eyed wanderer - I think that as a high-ranking priest, you speak the common language. I am asking you to stop your shameful practices, remove the symbols of suffering and mourning from this place, and then leave and never come back. As you probably noticed, I am not an ordinary pilgrim and if I am forced to… - The man paused, hearing one word that came like a thunder from the bald cultist: angelo.

The poet stretched out his hand towards the incanting priest. Thin fingers lengthened and blackened in a blink of an eye, then entwined together to form a dark tentacle, covered with curved spines. The grotesque limb whipped the bald figure on the face. The priest staggered, grasping his bleeding cheek. The wanderer moved towards him, but before he could attack for the second time, the master of ceremonies finished the prayer. - Amen. - At the same time, a stream of light flooded the poet, and just behind him through the temple’s vault fell a ball of fire, the impact of which raised a cloud of gray smoke and dust. A tall, winged figure outlined in this cloud, holding a golden spear in his right hand. It’s silhouette exuded a hot, blinding glow, it’s face was as if carved in marble. The black smoke began to fall and then flow down into the aisle. There it whirled, condensed and created the figure of a man with black eyes. - It didn’t have to be this way. You will die now. - The pilgrim drawled towards the priest. At the sound of these words, the bald man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at his wounded cheek. The angel turned toward the blasphemer and raised his spear. The poet made a few low, bubbling sounds and his body became enveloped in waving darkness. The luminous warrior threw himself into attack, propelled by his wings. He stabbed and slashed with spearhead, backed away, and rubbed again, furiously trying to reach the vile enemy, but the man nimbly avoided attacks, curling his blows like a wild animal. Several times the weapon seemed to rub against the poet’s body, but the dark tongues seemed to resist the strokes, hissing furiously. After an exceptionally strong thrust of the spear, the poet swirled in a pirouette, grabbed the weapon shaft with his right hand and with his left elbow hit the angel on the shiny face once, then again. Then he struck the blow with the back of his hand, turning his fingers into a hideous tentacle at the last moment, increasing the blow’s strength. The warrior flew backwards, as if hit by a hammer. However he managed to position the wings properly and flutter them so as to take advantage of the impact and shoot himself at the opponent. At the same time, he glowed his aura so hot that the poet had to narrow his eyes and take a few steps back. The brutality of the attack was unmatched. Two thrusts, a cut, a hit with a handle, cover of the flank with feathers, a turn and a cut again. The black-eyed traveler tried to repel the attacks, but he had no chance against such fury. Blows of glowing spear dispersed his dark armor, wounding his side and groin. The angel ended the offensive with a powerful kick that sent the enemy straight towards a column, which cracked loudly. Or the ribs of the poet broke with such a crack and he crumbled on the floor. The winged warrior flew over to the blasphemer, towering over him majestically and proudly uttered a few words that whipped the defeated with a judging fire.

- Confess your sins. Regret for unworthy deeds and cry over your disability, and perhaps the Lord in his mercy will save you from eternal suffering in the afterlife - he thundered, bringing the spearhead to the poet’s neck.

“As a part of... As a part of my penance... I would like to offer... A poem... - moaned the man in an increasingly red coat. He then climbed to his knees, folded his hands in prayer and began to recite firmly:

I saw in the light

Of the mountain’s splendor

A shadow of the cross

Weeping women below.

I crumbled, overawed

With such inquiry:

Are these tears thrill?

Or are they dying?

It is difficult to assess whether this was the best or the worst poem that the angel had ever heard in his long life, but it must have certainly impressed him because he immediately fell dead.

With greatest difficulty did the poet manage to get up. He crossed the cooling, winged corpse, staggered and leaned heavily on the stone altar. His body was shaken by a wave of violent torsions, then another and finally he vomited black slime. There was a metallic sound between the splashing, gurgling and rumbling. The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then made a quick and very complicated gesture. A bony, dripping, tarry hand appeared in front of him, suspended in the air waving slightly, then buried its skinny fingers in a puddle of vomit and brought out a small object, which it then placed on the center of the altar. The strange gem was violet or purple, and the shape seemed to change constantly. For a moment it was a sphere, then a polyhedron, then again a figure quite unimaginable or unpredictable by the principles of geometry. The black-eyed wanderer annihilated the bony hand and turned toward the exit. He walked slowly, panting heavily, his path marked by drops of blood. Along the way he met a bald priest crawling toward the door and was about to pass him, but he stopped. Half of the cultist’s face was occupied by a swollen, purple-red wound from which stinking pus oozed in a disgusting stream. The poet touched the cheek and said - Don’t touch what is on the altar. Leave. Never come back. Let no one come here. Never - he finished, then dusted off his coat, pulled a notebook and a pen out of his pocket and slowly walked out of the sanctuary.ng here…